Hard-Boiled: An Anthology of American Crime Stories

As a chronicler of madness and gratuitous viciousness, James Myers (Jim) Thompson was one of the great nihilists of the hard-boiled genre. Most of his protagonists live their lives as candle flames — now leaping, now falling, now dying. His heroes are starkly unheroic: psychopaths for the most part, congenital liars, killers, escapees from mental institutions, and sometimes even men in positions of power and trust. Usually these are deputies rather than sheriffs, underlings whose bland features or innocent chuckling hides seriously demented psyches. More than any other noir writer of the 1940s and 1950s, Thompson honed to perfection the “narrator-as-psychopath” approach. He did this brilliantly, not letting the reader in on the secret all at once, but gradually, artfully dropping hints of madness in the middle of the narrators’ sly and ingratiating soliloquies.

All of Thompson’s output during the 1950s and 1960s was published as paperback originals. In 1953 and 1954, he wrote ten books, including some of his best-known titles: A Hell of a Woman, A Swell-Looking Babe, and Savage Night. Perhaps the most representative of Thompson’s style is The Killer Inside Me (1952), which tells of the dark odyssey of Deputy Lou Ford, the cheerful and brutal psychopath who slays humans like others swat flies and who, in the end, believes that he must be sacrificed as humanity’s savior. Much later, in Pop. 1280 (1964), Thompson refined this plot so that the protagonist imagines himself actually to be the son of God.

Much of Thompson’s work constitutes a bitter salute to American success, his novels being bleak parables of postwar desolation and despair. His spiritual nihilism was admired by French intellectuals and literary types, and although his books went out of print and out of favor in his own country, his reputation flourished in Europe.

The 1972 film version of Thompson’s hard-boiled heist thriller, The Getaway, starring Ali MacGraw and Steve McQueen, gave a final boost to his career, even though the ending was sanitized. Thompson was no stranger to the world of film, having worked on Stanley Kubrick’s antiwar masterpiece Paths of Glory (1957), and he wrote scripts for the hugely successful Dr. Kildare television series. In addition, Thompson was not averse to the odd journeyman job when times were hard, having written a novelization of one of the popular Ironside teleplays. Short stories, however, do not appear to have attracted him as a genre. His small output of shorts and novelettes was collected in Fireworks (1988), along with several unpublished novel excerpts, true-crime pieces, and autobiographical sketches.

“Forever After” is another matter altogether. It is absolutely hard-boiled, absolutely noir, and, like Elmore Leonard’s “Three-Ten to Yuma,” a story that extends the boundaries of the genre in an utterly shocking yet satisfying way.

J. A.

Forever After (1960)

It was a few minutes before five o’clock when Ardis Clinton unlocked the rear door of her apartment, and admitted her lover. He was a coweyed young man with a wild mass of curly black hair. He worked as a dishwasher at Joe’s Diner, which was directly across the alley.

They embraced passionately. Her body pressed against the meat cleaver, concealed inside his shirt, and Ardis shivered with delicious anticipation. Very soon now, it would all be over. That stupid ox, her husband, would be dead. He and his stupid cracks all the dullness and boredom would be gone forever. And with the twenty thousand insurance money, ten thousand dollars double-indemnity...

“We’re going to be so happy, Tony,” she whispered. “You’ll have your own place, a real swank little restaurant with what they call one of those intimate bars. And you’ll just manage it, just kind of saunter around in a dress suit, and—”

“And we’ll live happily ever after,” Tony said. “Just me and you, baby, walking down life’s highway together.”

Ardis let out a gasp. She shoved him away from her, glaring up into his handsome empty face. “Don’t!” she snapped. “Don’t say things like that! I’ve told you and told you not to do it, and if I have to tell you again, I’ll—!”

“But what’d I say?” he protested. “I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Well...” She got control of herself, forcing a smile. “Never mind, darling. You haven’t had any opportunities and we’ve never really had a chance to know each other, so... so never mind. Things will be different after we’re married.” She patted his cheek, kissed him again. “You got away from the diner, all right? No one saw you leave?”

“Huh-uh. I already took the stuff up to the steam-table for Joe, and the waitress was up front too, y’know, filling the sugar bowls and the salt and pepper shakers like she always does just before dinner. And—”

“Good. Now, suppose someone comes back to the kitchen and finds out you’re not there. What’s your story going to be?”

“Well... I was out in the alley dumping some garbage. I mean—” he corrected himself hastily, “maybe I was. Or maybe I was down in the basement, getting some supplies. Or maybe I was in the john — the lavatory, I mean... or—”

“Fine,” Ardis said approvingly. “You don’t say where you were, so they can’t prove you weren’t there. You just don’t remember where you were, understand, darling? You might have been any number of places.”

Tony nodded. Looking over her shoulder into the bedroom, he frowned worriedly. “Why’d you do that now, honey? I know this has got to look like a robbery. But tearin’ up the room now, before he gets here—”

“There won’t be time afterwards. Don’t worry, Tony. I’ll keep the door closed.”

“But he might open it and look in. And if he sees all them dresser drawers dumped around, and—”

“He won’t. He won’t look into the bedroom. I know exactly what he’ll do, exactly what he’ll say, the same things that he’s always done and said ever since we’ve been married. All the stupid, maddening, dull, tiresome—!” She broke off abruptly, conscious that her voice was rising. Well, forget it, she said, forcing another smile. “He won’t give us any trouble.”

“Whatever you say,” Tony nodded docilely. “If you say so, that’s the way it is, Ardis.”

“But there’ll be trouble from the cops. I know I’ve already warned you about it, darling. But it’ll be pretty bad, worse than anything you’ve ever gone through. They won’t have any proof, but they’re bound to be suspicious, and if you ever start talking, admitting anything—”

“I won’t. They won’t get anything out of me.”

“You’re sure? They’ll try to trick you. They’ll probably tell you that I’ve confessed. They may even slap you around. So if you’re not absolutely sure...”

“They won’t get anything out of me,” he repeated stolidly. “I won’t talk.”

And studying him, Ardis knew that he wouldn’t.

She led the way down the hall to the bathroom. He parted the shower curtains, and stepped into the tub. Drawing a pair of gloves from his pocket, he pulled them onto his hands. Awkwardly, he fumbled the meat cleaver from beneath his shirt.

“Ardis. Uh — look, honey.”

“Yes?”

“Do I have to hit you? Couldn’t I just maybe give you a little shove, or—”

“No, darling,” she said gently. “You have to hit me. This is supposed to be a robbery. If you killed my husband without doing anything to me, well, you know how it would look.”

“But I never hit no woman — any woman — before. I might hit you too hard, and—”

“Tony!”

“Well, all right,” he said sullenly. “I don’t like it, but all right.”

Ardis murmured soothing endearments. Then, brushing his lips quickly with her own, she returned to the living room. It was a quarter after five, exactly five minutes — but exactly — until her husband, Bill, would come home. Closing the bedroom door, she lay down on the lounge. Her negligee fell open, and she left it that way, grinning meanly as she studied the curving length of her thighs.

Give the dope a treat for a change, she thought. Let him get one last good look before he gets his.

Her expression changed. Wearily, resentfully, she pulled the material of the negligee over her legs. Because, of course, Bill would never notice. She could wear a ring in her nose, paint a bull’s eye around her navel, and he’d never notice.

If he had ever noticed, just once paid her a pretty compliment...

If he had ever done anything different, ever said or done anything different at all — even the teensiest little bit...

But he hadn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. So what else could she do but what she was doing? She could get a divorce, sure, but that was all she’d get. No money; nothing with which to build a new life. Nothing to make up for those fifteen years of slowly being driven mad.

It’s his own fault, she thought bitterly. I can’t take anymore. If I had to put up with him for just one more night, even one more hour...!

She heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then, a key turned in the doorlatch, and Bill came in. He was a master machinist, a solidly built man of about forty-five. The old-fashioned gold-rimmed glasses on his pudgy nose gave him a look of owlish solemnity.

“Well,” he said, setting down his lunch bucket. “Another day, another dollar.”

Ardis grimaced. He plodded across to the lounge, stooped, and gave her a half-hearted peck on the cheek.

“Long time no see,” he said. “What we havin’ for supper?”

Ardis gritted her teeth. It shouldn’t matter, now; in a few minutes it would all be over. Yet somehow it did matter. He was as maddening to her as he had ever been.

“Bill...” She managed a seductive smile, slowly drawing the negligee apart. “How do I look, Bill?”

“Okay,” he yawned. “Got a little hole in your drawers, though. What’d you say we was havin’ for supper?”

“Slop,” she said. “Garbage. Trash salad with dirt dressing.”

“Sounds good. We got any hot water?”

Ardis sucked in her breath. She let it out again in a kind of infuriated moan. “Of course, we’ve got hot water! Don’t we always have? Well, don’t we? Why do you have to ask every night?”

“So what’s to get excited about?” he shrugged. “Well, guess I’ll go splash the chassis.”

He plodded off down the hall. Ardis heard the bathroom door open, and close. She got up, stood waiting by the telephone. The door banged open again, and Tony came racing up the hall.

He had washed off the cleaver. While he hastily tucked it back inside his shirt, Ardis dialed the operator. “Help,” she cried weakly. “Help... police... murder!”

She let the receiver drop to the floor, spoke to Tony in a whisper. “He’s dead? You’re sure of it?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure I’m sure. What do you think?”

“All right. Now, there’s just one more thing...”

“I can’t, Ardis. I don’t want to. I—”

“Hit me,” she commanded, and thrust out her chin. “Tony, I said to hit me!”

He hit her. A thousand stars blazed through her brain, and disappeared. And she crumpled silently to the floor.

...When she regained consciousness, she was lying on the lounge. A heavy-set man, a detective obviously, was seated at her side, and a white-jacketed young man with a stethoscope draped around his neck hovered nearby.

She had never felt better in her life. Even the lower part of her face, where Tony had smashed her, was surprisingly free of pain. Still, because it was what she should do, she moaned softly; spoke in a weak, hazy voice.

“Where am I?” she said. “What happened?”

“Lieutenant Powers,” the detective said. “Suppose you tell me what happened, Mrs. Clinton.”

“I... I don’t remember. I mean, well, my husband had just come home, and gone back to the bathroom. And there was a knock on the door, and I supposed it was the paper-boy or someone like that. So—”

“You opened the door and he rushed in and slugged you, right? Then what happened?”

“Well, then he rushed into the bedroom and started searching it. Yanking out the dresser drawers, and—”

“What was he searching for, Mrs. Clinton? You don’t have any considerable amount of money around do you? Or any jewelry aside from what you’re wearing? And it wasn’t your husband’s payday, was it?”

“Well, no. But—”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was crazy. All I know is what he did.”

“I see. He must have made quite a racket, seems to me. How come your husband didn’t hear it?”

“He couldn’t have. He had the shower running, and—”

She caught herself, fear constricting her throat. Lieutenant Powers grinned grimly.

“Missed a bet, huh, Mrs. Clinton?”

“I... I don’t know what you’re—”

“Come off of it! The bathtub’s dry as an oven. The shower was never turned on, and you know why it wasn’t. Because there was a guy standing inside of it.”

“B-but... but I don’t know anything. I was unconscious, and—”

“Then, how do you know what happened? How do you know this guy went into the bedroom and started tearing it apart? And how did you make that telephone call?”

“Well, I... I wasn’t completely unconscious. I sort of knew what was going on without really—”

“Now, you listen to me,” he said harshly. “You made that fake call of yours — yes, I said fake — to the operator at twenty-three minutes after five. There happened to be a prowl car right here in the neighborhood, so two minutes later, at five-twenty-five, there were cops here in your apartment. You were unconscious then, more than an hour ago. You’ve been unconscious until just now.”

Ardis’ brain whirled. Then, it cleared suddenly, and a great calm came over her.

“I don’t see quite what you’re hinting at, lieutenant. If you’re saying that I was confused, mixed up — that I must have dreamed or imagined some of the things I told you — I’ll admit it.”

“You know what I’m saying! I’m saying that no guy could have got in and out of this place, and done what this one did, in any two minutes!”

“Then the telephone operator must have been mistaken about the time,” Ardis said brightly. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Powers grunted. He said he could give her a better explanation — and he gave it to her. The right one. Ardis listened to it placidly, murmuring polite objections.

“That’s ridiculous, lieutenant. Regardless of any gossip you may have heard, I don’t know this, uh, Tony person. And I most certainly did not plot with him or anyone else to kill my husband. Why—”

“He says you did. We got a signed confession from him.”

“Have you?” But of course they didn’t have. They might have found out about Tony, but he would never have talked. “That hardly proves anything, does it?”

“Now, you listen to me, Mrs. Clinton! Maybe you think that—”

“How is my husband, anyway? I do hope he wasn’t seriously hurt.”

“How is he?” the lieutenant snarled. “How would he be after gettin’ worked over with—” He broke off, his eyes flickering. “As a matter of fact,” he said heavily, “he’s going to be all right. He was pretty badly injured, but he was able to give us a statement and—”

“I’m so glad. But why are you questioning me, then?” It was another trick. Bill had to be dead. “If he gave you a statement, then you must know that everything happened just like I said.”

She waited, looked at him quizzically. Powers scowled, his stern face wrinkling with exasperation.

“All right,” he said, at last. “All right, Mrs. Clinton. Your husband is dead. We don’t have any statement from him, and we don’t have any confession from Tony.”

“Yes?”

“But we know that you’re guilty, and you know that you are. And you’d better get it off your conscience while you still can.”

“While I still can?”

“Doc” — Powers jerked his head at the doctor. At the man, that is, who appeared to be a doctor. “Lay it on the line, doc. Tell her that her boy friend hit her a little too hard.”

The man came forward hesitantly. He said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clinton. You have a — uh — you’ve sustained a very serious injury.”

“Have I?” Ardis smiled. “I feel fine.”

“I don’t think,” the doctor said judiciously, “that that’s quite true. What you mean is that you don’t feel anything at all. You couldn’t. You see, with an injury such as yours—”

“Get out,” Ardis said. “Both of you get out.”

“Please, Mrs. Clinton. Believe me, this isn’t a trick. I haven’t wanted to alarm you, but—”

“And you haven’t,” she said. “You haven’t scared me even a little bit, mister. Now, clear out!”

She closed her eyes, kept them closed firmly. When, at last, she reopened them, Powers and the doctor — if he really had been a doctor — were gone. And the room was in darkness.

She lay smiling to herself, congratulating herself. In the corridor outside, she heard heavy footsteps approaching; and she tensed for a moment. Then, remembering, she relaxed again.

Not Bill, of course. She was through with that jerk forever. He’d driven her half out of her mind, got her to the point where she couldn’t have taken another minute of him if her life depended on it. But now...

The footsteps stopped in front of her door. A key turned in the lock, the door opened and closed.

There was a clatter of a lunchpail being set down; then a familiar voice — maddeningly familiar words:

“Well. Another day, another dollar.”

Ardis’ mouth tightened; it twisted slowly, in a malicious grin. So they hadn’t given up yet! They were pulling this one last trick. Well, let them; she’d play along with the gag.

The man plodded across the room, stooped, and gave her a halfhearted peck on the cheek. “Long time no see,” he said. “What we havin’ for supper?”

“Bill...” Ardis said. “How do I look, Bill?”

“Okay. Got your lipstick smeared, though. What’d you say we was having for supper?”

“Stewed owls! Now, look, mister. I don’t know who you—”

“Sounds good. We got any hot water?”

“Of course, we’ve got hot water! Don’t we always have? Why do you always have to ask if... if—”

She couldn’t go through with it. Even as a gag — even someone who merely sounded and acted like he did — it was too much to bear.

“Y-you get out of here!” she quavered. “I don’t have to stand for this! I c-can’t stand it! I did it for fifteen years, and—”

“So what’s to get excited about?” he said. “Well, guess I’ll go splash the chassis.”

“Stop it! STOP IT!” Her screams filled the room... silent screams ripping through silence. “He’s... you’re dead! I know you are! You’re dead, and I don’t have to put up with you for another minute. And... and—!”

“Wouldn’t take no bets on that if I was you,” he said mildly. “Not with a broken neck like yours.”

He trudged off toward the bathroom, wherever the bathroom is in Eternity.

Henry Andrew DeRosso was primarily a writer of grim, objectively realistic Western fiction, a genre in which he produced hundreds of short stories and novelettes as well as five novels over a twenty-year span. His output was not limited to Westerns, however. He also published some forty dark-suspense tales, in such pulps as Street & Smith’s Detective Story Magazine and Thrilling Detective, and in such digest-size periodicals as Manhunt, Hunted, Mystery Tales, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine.

Like his Western stories, DeRosso’s crime fiction is offbeat and character-oriented, with more depth of feeling — and substance — than the typical magazine fare of its time. “The Old Pro,” which first appeared in Manhunt in December 1960, is a prime example.

In many respects, DeRosso’s life and vision approximate those of Cornell Woolrich. Both men were loners, DeRosso having spent his entire life in a small town in the remote iron-mining country of northeastern Wisconsin. Both wrote introspective, sometimes crude, often violent, and predominately visceral prose unlike that produced by any of their peers. Both were obsessed with what they perceived to be the ultimate futility of human existence and yet, paradoxically, with a man’s constant need to strive for some sense of meaning and salvation in his own existence. And both understood and wrote feelingly about unrequited love, lost innocence, and loneliness.

B. P.

The Old Pro (1960)

It seemed rather strange and chilling to him because he had never contracted for another man’s death before. But it was something that had to be done and he could not do it himself because he wanted to remain clean. Direct involvement, if discovered, would destroy all that he had built these past few years. He might even lose Loretta and she meant too much to him to risk that. So he made a long distance call and entered into the contract.

“Mike? This is Burn. Remember me?”

“Burn?” Sargasso’s voice over the phone sounded as coarse and rasping as it had always been. “Oh, yes. It’s been a long time. Four years, isn’t that right?”

“About that.”

“How’s retirement?”

“Good. Never had it better. Until something came up.”

“Oh? Is that why you’re calling?”

“Yes. I was wondering if you couldn’t refer someone to me, a... an engineer experienced in removing obstructions. It’s a ticklish matter and I need a good man. You know of someone like that around?”

There was a short silence. Then from Sargasso’s end of the line there came a soft, grating chuckle.

“Is something funny?” he asked with a touch of anger in his tone.

“In a way, yes,” Sargasso said. “I mean, you of all people—” The chuckle sounded again.

He flushed in the privacy of the phone booth. “Well, do you have the man?” he asked testily.

“Sure, Burn, sure.” Amusement still lingered in Sargasso’s voice. “You were always the hasty one. Take it easy. When do you want the engineer?”

“This weekend. Sometime Saturday. At my place out at Walton Lake. I’ll have the job all set up for him. Can you get him up here in that time?”

“Now, Burn, you know I always guarantee results.” The humor still teased in Sargasso’s tone. “Well, luck.”

“Thanks, Mike. So long.”

The line clicked dead at Sargasso’s end before he had even started to hang up...

The name on his mailbox spelled Ralph Whitburn. He had a comfortable home here on the edge of the small town with a nice view of the curving river that was the boundary between Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Beyond the river stretched the vast, second-growth forest. He had fallen in love with the view the first time he had seen it. He enjoyed the cool green colors of summer and the tartan hues of autumn, he even enjoyed the bleak look of winter with the trees standing dark and dead among the silent snow. It was so far removed from the squalor and stench of all the cities he had once known.

This was the good life. He could hear Loretta humming in the kitchen. The aroma of cooking was pleasant in his nostrils. He stood on the lawn and watched some swallows wheeling and darting not far overhead in their swift pursuit of summer insects. Yes, this was the good life and he was not going to let anything destroy it. That was why he had contracted for a man’s death.

“Chow’s ready, Ralph.”

His eyes feasted on Loretta as he sat down at the table in the dining nook. She was tall and red-headed with a pert, saucy face spattered with freckles that also spread over her bare shoulders and arms. She was wearing halter and shorts that set off her good figure, which was high-breasted, lean-hipped and long-legged. Once he had thought that love was an emotion he would never experience but that had been before he had met Loretta.

This was the good life, this was true contentment.

“Is something wrong, Ralph?”

He looked up with a start, surprised that he had revealed anything. Loretta was watching him with a half-frown, half-smile, green eyes clouded with puzzlement and concern.

His lips twisted into a smile that felt awkward and forced to him. “Why do you say that?”

“You look — preoccupied.”

“Do I?” He laughed. “The approach of middle age when muscles grow flabby and the skin sags and—”

“Oh, stop it, Ralph. I’m serious.” The frown was very pronounced on her forehead now. “Something’s been eating you lately. What is it?”

He sobered and the great solemnness came over him again and the needling of a dark and futile anger. “It’s nothing, Loretta. I swear it’s nothing.”

“Well, if this is how ‘nothing’ affects you, I’d hate to think how you’d be when something big and serious pops up.”

“I’ve been thinking. You know, about expanding the plant. Wood products are selling very well. I’ve been trying to decide between enlarging the existing plant and building a new one, maybe over in Michigan.”

She was staring at him in a strange, examining way. “Funny you never mentioned this to me before. Are you starting to keep things from me, Ralph?” She tried to say the last lightly but it did not quite come off. There had been a catch in her throat.

He got up and bent over her and kissed her cheek. “I’m just a little down. Kind of tired. A weekend at the lake will fix me up.”

She hugged his arm and looked up at him with shining eyes. “I was just going to suggest that. Why don’t we go out there tonight? You can stay away from the plant tomorrow. It’s Friday and the business will get along without you for one day. I’ll start getting ready now.”

She rose to her feet but he put a detaining hand on her arm. “Saturday’s soon enough. And, Loretta, this weekend I’m going out there alone.”

She gave him a long look. Then her mouth smiled but the eyes said she was just pretending. “You mean what the Hollywood people call a trial separation?”

“No, no,” he said hurriedly, “nothing like that.” He took her in his arms and held her very tightly, thinking that this was something he would never allow anyone to break up. “There’s something I’ve got to thrash out alone. I wish I could explain to you, Loretta, but it’s something I’ve got to do by myself. I’ll miss you every minute I’m at the lake. Believe me.”

“Ralph,” she gasped, “I can’t breathe.” She leaned back in his relaxing arms and caressed his cheek while she smiled up at him. “Old and flabby?” she teased. “Another minute of that and I’d have had to go see a chiropractor.”

“Then you don’t mind my going alone?”

“Of course I mind, but I bow to your will, master.” She kissed him fervently. “I’ll miss you, too, you big lug. Very, very much.”

He buried his face in her hair. This was the good life, he thought. Nothing, no one was going to take it from him...

He had always liked the solemnity and quiet of the forest. There was something restful and soothing in the isolation, the lack of the sounds of machinery and motors, the absence of the hurry and bustle of the cities. The only intrusion from the outside world was the occasional snarl of an outboard motor out on the lake but even this was not overdone for he had selected a far end of Walton Lake on which to build his cottage. There were no immediate neighbors. He had come to these north woods for seclusion and here at the lake he had it.

He found the waiting hard to take and this was unusual for he had always been a patient man. The thing he disliked most about the waiting was that so many doubts and uncertainties were forming in his mind. He realized these were foolish fears for the man Sargasso sent would be efficient and capable. He knew how these killers operated. They entered a town or city as strangers, studied the habits of their quarry, decided on the best means of liquidation, did so and departed. They were the professionals who very seldom were apprehended and if they were never named their employers. He knew that very well but still he could not keep a feeling of anxiety from creeping over him. There was too much at stake, he had too much to lose, that was the reason he worried so endlessly.

He tried fishing to while away the time. He got his boat and went out to the center of the lake by the island and on his third cast hooked a wall-eye. But his heart was not in it and he played the big fish carelessly and impatiently and lost it. He started the motor again, intending to cruise about the lake, and with his mind on other matters almost wrecked the craft on the treacherous rocks that lurked just beneath the surface of the water at the south end of the island. He swerved the boat barely in time and as he looked back over his shoulder at the place where he could have torn the bottom out of the craft the idea was born.

He could feel his heart begin to pound with an old excitement. Then he remembered that Sargasso was sending someone and that whoever it was he would have his own ideas. So Whitburn filed the thought away, somewhat regretfully, telling himself he could not become involved directly. He had to stay clean.

Heading back to the cottage, he saw the car parked beside his convertible. A strange tightness gathered in his throat, a sensation of uneasiness almost akin to panic, and he wondered at this for he had always prided himself on his iron nerve. He told himself to relax. The matter would be in capable hands. No one was ever delegated by Sargasso unless he were thoroughly competent.

The stranger was standing on the small dock, watching the boat come in. He was on the short and chunky side. He wore a gay sport shirt and tan slacks. The head was round, the face chubby with small, hard eyes staring out of thick pouches. The graying hair was clipped short, giving him a Teutonic appearance.

“Burn?” he asked. The voice was soft, almost gentle.

“Whitburn. Been waiting long?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

Whitburn tied the boat to the dock and stepped ashore. The other was watching him with a patent curiosity.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Whitburn said.

“Mace.” There was a silence while the small, granitic eyes went on measuring Whitburn. “I understand you have a... an engineering problem.”

“Come inside,” Whitburn said. “I’ve got some cold beer.”

This was rather unusual, Whitburn was thinking. It was a new experience for him, this outlining the matter and arranging a man’s death. It had never been quite like this before.

“I don’t know how to begin,” Whitburn said.

Mace smiled thinly. It was an expression of patience as well as amusement. “Take your time. Tell it any way you like.”

Whitburn took a sip of beer. It seemed without taste, he found no pleasure in it, and told himself angrily to stop acting so damned childish. He had seen his share. Why should this appall him? And he told himself it was because he had never trusted anyone, only himself. That was his creed. To that he attributed survival and the good life he was now enjoying.

“There’s a man—” he began and then had to pause, searching for words that were not there. Mace watched him, smile widening slightly, and Whitburn knew a touch of resentment. He remembered Sargasso’s amusement over the phone. Was this the same? It couldn’t be. Mace seemed to sense his thoughts and the small smile vanished. Mace took a deep swallow of beer.

“He’ll be coming here this evening,” Whitburn went on after a while. “After dark. Not exactly here but to the island. You noticed it, didn’t you, the island? He comes there every Saturday night. I want this to be the last time.”

“Blackmail?” Mace asked in his quiet voice.

Whitburn leaned forward in his chair, somewhat angered. “What did Mike tell you?”

“Mike? Oh, you mean— Nothing, Whitburn. You know how it is. He just acts as an agent. You know, like agents who book actors? He sends us where there’s work for us. You know that.”

“Why did you say blackmail?”

“You mentioned a man you don’t want coming around any more. I’ve found it’s almost always blackmail. Something else, a guy can run to the cops. Blackmail, a guy has something to hide, he can’t have the cops nosing around. Anyway, that’s what I’ve found. Don’t you agree?”

“You know the man?”

Mace spread his hands. “How would I? Brief me.”

Whitburn could hear the leaden thumping of his heart. That sense of anxiety would not leave him. If he could only be sure that there would be no slip up. Mace looked competent. All of Sargasso’s men were competent. Failure sealed their doom, there was no such thing as a second chance. But if something did go wrong and he was implicated, there would be small comfort in knowing that Mace would pay for his bungling. The good life would be gone, most likely lost forever.

“His name is Cullenbine, Earl Cullenbine,” Whitburn said. In his ears his voice sounded dull and flat. “He used to be a police reporter with underworld connections. Blackmail had always been a sideline with him. The last couple of years he’s been giving it his full time. He came up north last November to hunt deer and recognized me. At the time he didn’t let on but he came back this spring and hasn’t let me alone since.”

He looked down at his hands and saw that they were clenched tight. He forced them open and became aware that a trickle of sweat ran down each cheek. It was warm outside and some of the heat had penetrated into the cottage. Still he cursed silently and asked what had happened to his iron nerve?

He glanced at Mace and thought he caught the vanishing of a look of amusement on the man’s face. But it could have been only imagination. He was as jumpy as a wino after a month long binge.

“You want it on the island?” Mace asked.

“That’s as good a place as any. It’ll be night and there shouldn’t be anyone around. There’s no one living on the island, not even a shack. During the day sometimes fishermen pass by there but very seldom at night.”

“Fine,” Mace said, nodding. “Fine.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to tell you how to do your job but would it be possible somehow to make it look like an accident?”

Mace smiled the amused smile. “I imagine it could be arranged.”

“I mean, without a weapon. That is, without something like a gun or a knife. It would be a dead giveaway otherwise. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to tell you just what to do but I don’t want to be connected with it in any way. You see, I’m alone at this end of the lake. If a weapon is used, naturally I’ll be questioned on whether I saw or heard something. Perhaps I might even come under suspicion. I don’t want that.”

He felt a little foolish talking like this. It was so strange for him to be the one saying these words.

“Relax,” Mace said, the smile still on his face. “I’ll fix it just the way you want it.”

“I suppose I better describe Cullenbine to you.”

“I’ve just thought of something better,” Mace said. “Why don’t you come to the island with me? You can make sure it’s Cullenbine then. No chance for a mistake that way.”

Whitburn was silent, unable to find anything to say. The feeling of anxiety was stronger than ever in him and he could not understand why it should be. Tension and suspense had never bothered him before.

Mace laughed softly. “If you’re squeamish, I’ll wait until you’ve left the island. After all, you do want to make sure it’s Cullenbine and not someone else I might mistake, don’t you? This way there’s no chance for error. Like I said, I’ll wait until after you’ve gone from the island. You won’t have to watch anything.”

Whitburn remained silent, thinking.

“You said you’re the only one at this end of the lake. So who’s to see you going to the island with me? You do want to make sure it’s Cullenbine, don’t you? Chances are he’ll be the only one to show up on the island tonight but you never can tell. I just thought, you worrying so much about something going wrong and all that, you’d want to be positive it’s Cullenbine.”

Whitburn sighed. “All right, Mace.”

Mace glanced at his wristwatch. “What time do you expect him on the island?”

“About ten.”

“Good. Is there a place I can catch some sleep here?...”

Frogs had their choral groups scattered along the shore of the lake and in the ponds in the nearby forest. Something flew past not far overhead on softly flapping wings. Stars glittered brightly. The surface of the lake looked black, like the underground river of the dead.

They got into the boat and Whitburn used an oar to push the craft away from the dock and into deeper water so that he could drop the outboard. The motor caught on the first try and he kept the throttle barely open, easing the boat toward the island with as little sound as he could manage.

“This how you make your payoffs?” Mace asked. “On the island?”

“Every Saturday night.”

“Didn’t your wife ever get suspicious?”

“Sometimes I’d fish off shore in the afternoon and then cruise around to the other side where she couldn’t see me go ashore. We had a place where I’d leave the money. Sometimes I’d come here at night, like now, and hand it to him in person. I’d vary it from time to time. Loretta never caught on.”

Saying her name put a tightness in Whitburn’s throat. For you, Loretta, he thought, I’m doing all this for you and the good life we have together. I’d never have got into this otherwise.

“Why didn’t you ever take care of Cullenbine yourself?”

“I— That’s not my line.”

Mace laughed, a sound barely heard above the purr of the outboard.

The island loomed dark and brooding in the starlight. An owl hooted softly. Whitburn eased the boat in to shore, cutting the motor and letting the craft drift the last few yards. The prow grated gently against gravel and he stepped out into several inches of water and with Mace’s help pulled the boat halfway up on the beach.

He stood for a few moments, staring out over the lake, wondering if anyone had seen him and Mace crossing to the island. Only the black water appeared. There were no sounds other than the glee-clubbing of the frogs and the soft lapping of the lake against the shore.

“He’ll be on the other side of the island,” Whitburn said to Mace and started walking.

He led the way with Mace several steps behind him. They took a roundabout route, following the shore line for this was easier going than plunging through the timber that was choked with thick underbrush. Even so, Mace, who was more accustomed to walking the uncluttered and smooth cement and asphalt of the cities, stumbled a couple of times over the uneven earth and spongelike ground littered with debris that had been washed ashore. His curses were angry and vicious.

Mace was breathing hard by the time they reached the southern end of the island. Whitburn’s breath, too, had quickened, from his exertions and a strange, uneasy excitement that he could not quite fathom. Mace caught up with Whitburn as he paused to study the darkness ahead. Finally Whitburn saw it, the faint, pink glow of a cigarette as the smoker inhaled on it.

He started ahead again, aware that Mace once more trailed him. He could understand Mace’s difficult progress for he himself tripped and all but fell over a piece of driftwood. Then he made out the tall shadow standing there, watching them approach.

He should have known how it was when Cullenbine evinced no surprise that Whitburn was not alone. Cullenbine stood there quite calmly, inhaling on his cigarette. The night concealed whatever expression there was on his lean, sallow face.

“I see you got here, Burn,” Cullenbine said.

Whitburn felt his throat constrict. Something shrieked a warning in his brain but he realized that the alarm had come too late. Like an amateur he had let Mace stay behind him all the while. He turned and saw Mace standing a few feet away. Even in the darkness he could make out the black shape of the pistol in Mace’s hand.

Cullenbine chuckled. “Have you finally got it, Burn?”

It was too late for recriminations and reproach. He had grown soft these past four years, he had lost that fine edge, that intuitive sense that had always served him well. He had lost all that and his life in the bargain.

Loretta, he thought, and for the first time since he had been a child he could have wept. Once more he said her name to himself and then put all his mind to what was at hand.

“I guess I read you just in the nick of time,” Cullenbine was saying. “I didn’t realize how fine I had drawn it until Mace told me that you had called Sargasso, too, but only after I’d done so. Mike has a sense of humor, don’t you think, Burn? I mean, sending Mace up here to both of us?”

Whitburn became aware of the calm, hard beat of his heart. This was more like it had once been. He was beginning to feel some of the coolness, the detachment he used to experience. Maybe it was coming back. Maybe he had not lost it after all.

“Who did Mike tell you to serve, Mace?” he asked.

He sensed Mace’s shrug. “Mike said it was up to me. He told me to figure out if you’d gone soft, if there was nothing worth salvaging about you. I never knew you when you were one of Mike’s boys, I was with another organization then, but he said you’d been his best. But then you got married and went in hiding up here in these woods. He said if you’d gone soft to take you and you are soft, Burn, like a creampuff.”

“I have the priority, Burn,” Cullenbine put in. “After all, I called Sargasso first. You were a mite too late. I figured you were tired of paying me and were about to do something about it. But I thought you’d do it personally. After all, I wouldn’t have been the first man you’d have killed. But like Mace says, you went soft and called Sargasso, just after I did. I figured I wouldn’t have a chance against a professional like you which is the reason I got in touch with Sargasso. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Whitburn stood there, silent. It was as though he were already hearing the earth thudding down upon his coffin.

“Good,” Cullenbine said. “No sense in dragging it out, is there? Mace. Do me a favor. I’d rather not watch.”

“You’re the boss,” Mace said. He motioned with the pistol. “Start moving, Burn. Back the way we come. I told you I was going to do it like you wanted it. An accident, you said? That’s how it’ll be.”

He walked on wooden legs, hardly conscious of the pain when he barked his shin against a piece of driftwood. He walked like a beaten man, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. Mace stepped in close once and jabbed Whitburn hard in the back with the pistol.

“Faster, damn you,” Mace snarled.

Whitburn’s pace quickened then, after a while, began to slow and drag again. They were well away from Cullenbine now. Only the night was there, and the inanimateness of the island, and the frogs chorusing and the water lapping against the beach.

Whitburn had angled close to the edge of the water. He paused when he felt a stick of driftwood and stood with one heel poised against it. Mace’s curse sounded softly and Whitburn sensed the man moving in to jab him again with the pistol. Whitburn kicked back with his heel, sending the piece of driftwood hard against Mace’s shins. Mace swore as his feet tangled and tripped him. He fell heavily, cursing sharp and loud. The pistol roared as he dropped but the bullet went wild.

Whitburn was on Mace instantly. A hard toe against Mace’s wrist sent the pistol flying out of numbed fingers. They grappled, rolling into the water. With a fury he had never known, Whitburn got a hold on Mace, forcing him face down into the water. Whitburn’s knees dug into the small of Mace’s back, his hands never for an instant relaxed their iron grip.

Mace thrashed and kicked and tried to roll, he tried swiveling his head to get his mouth out of the water but it was just deep enough to thwart his efforts. Whitburn held him until Mace’s movements weakened and finally slackened and were still. He stayed as he was on Mace until he was sure Mace would breathe no more.

He had never known rage and hate when killing until now. The realization came to him as he was walking back to Cullenbine. But then, Whitburn told himself, this was the first time he had ever been personally involved with his victims. All the others had been detached objects for whom he’d had no feelings. They had merely represented a job he had to do. They had never been a question of survival.

He had Mace’s pistol in his hand as he came up to Cullenbine who was waiting, smoking calmly. It was not until Whitburn was almost on him that recognition, shock, then horror came to Cullenbine.

“Burn,” he cried, voice harsh with surprise and terror.

Whitburn motioned with the pistol. “Start walking, Cullenbine. You’re going to join Mace...”

He had the good life again, without the worry and fear of being exposed for what he had been. It was never better than it was now with Loretta. He bought her a Thunderbird for her birthday and in return she became more affectionate and satisfying than ever before. Yes, he had the good life again.

The deaths of Cullenbine and Mace had not created too much of a stir. They had been found drowned at the south end of the island, among the treacherous rocks. Cullenbine’s boat had been found there, too, with the bottom smashed in where Whitburn had run it onto the rocks. The deaths were officially written off as accidental.

One day his phone rang and all the joy ran out of him and he was just a shell, hollow and empty, as he heard the coarse, rasping voice from the other end of the long distance line.

“Burn? Mike. How goes it?”

He had to run his tongue over his lips and swallow before he could speak. “All right,” he managed.

“You handled yourself very well,” Sargasso said. “They never tumbled, did they? Accidental drowning.” Sargasso chuckled. “I always said you were the best. That’s why I hated to see you go into retirement. Didn’t a taste of it make you hungry for more? You want to come back, Burn?”

“No, damn you, and listen to me. What was the big—”

“You listen to me, Burn,” Sargasso snapped. “I just wanted to know if you still had it. If you couldn’t handle Mace you weren’t worth taking back.”

“I’m not coming back. I—”

“Listen, Burn. Listen good. You got a wife, huh? Good looker, huh? She wouldn’t be such a pretty sight after she’d caught acid in her face. Get what I mean, Burn?”

Something sickening formed in his stomach. He could see the good years begin to fade.

“There’s something in Vegas,” Sargasso went on when Whitburn didn’t answer. “Something real touchy. It needs the best. That’s you, Burn.”

“No.” He tried to shout it but it came out as a barely audible whisper. He was not sure whether Sargasso had heard it.

“Maybe you’d like to think it over,” Sargasso was saying. “I can give you twenty-four hours. No more.”

“All right,” he said in a dull voice, “I’ll think about it.”

“Fine. See you, Burn.” The line went dead at Sargasso’s end.

He stood there with the receiver in his hand, staring with unseeing eyes at the view he had once enjoyed so much. He could think it over but there was only one answer Sargasso would accept. And the Vegas thing would not be the last. There would be another and another and another until he eventually bungled and had to pay the penalty.

Finally he stirred and placed the phone back on its cradle. The sound that made was the requiem for the good life...